Then the good Bishop sent a young man, who rode all night, to compel him immediately to take the coach for Tooele—the young man paying his fare, so that he might have no excuse. Then, at last, he came.
Arrived at the little town where his poor wife lay dying, Orson conducted himself like the philosopher he professes to be. Before him stood the hovel, within which were his deserted little ones—wailing, as if sensible of the great loss of a mother’s care which they would soon have to sustain—and there, on her dying bed, was that poor wife and mother, tossing in wild delirium. But he, the cause of all that woe, passed by that wretched hovel and its death-scene to the comfortable home of a well-to-do brother, at whose house he first obtained his supper, and then, calmly returning, entered the place where his wife was lying, and for a moment surveyed the scene. Then he quietly remarked to one of the sisters present: “She has a good deal of fever.”
Another sister, who stood by, impulsively exclaimed, “Good God! Brother Pratt, this is more than fever; she is dying.”
“Oh dear no, sister,” he calmly replied; “she will recover.”
It was evident, however, to all but Orson that his wife was dying, and that no earthly power could save her.
DESPAIR.
To face p. 326.
The next day she was still raving, and it was told me that in her wild frenzy she even attempted to strangle her babe. Orson essayed to hold her, but she caught his gold chain and snapped it in two. His touch and the sight of the chain recalled her for a moment to her senses, and she said reproachfully, “You are puffed up with pride, Orson, with your gold chain and rings, while you leave me and my babes to starve. Poor little lambs! where are they?”
For a moment the yearning of a mother’s heart for her children conquered the fever that tortured her mind, and she listened to her husband’s attempted words of comfort, as he said, “I am with you now, Eliza, and I will take care of you.”